To say that one will visit an apartment in a large hotel-apartment house during the absence of its owner or occupant, and search it, and to perform that ceremony are two very different propositions, as Nick Carter was destined speedily to discover.
The name of the particular one in which Madge Babbington had elected to reside after her acquittal at the trial was the Creotoria, and it was located on Broadway in that uptown section of the city where so many of those great edifices have been erected in the last few years.
It was eleven o’clock at night when the detective arrived there and entered the wide and spacious corridor which led to the office desk, and Nick found out at once that it was impossible for him to ascend to any of the upper floors of the building without first giving some adequate reason for doing so.
The obstacles which confronted him in the carrying out of his design seemed almost insurmountable at first, as he approached the desk where an expectant clerk stood waiting to receive him, having seen him enter at the front doorway—for this was no transient place, at which one might apply for lodgings for the night.
Plainly, the only way for the detective even to beginthe accomplishment of what he had set out to do was to pretend that some one whom he knew lived there; but at the moment he could not recall that he had ever heard of the house until he had been informed that Mrs. Hurd-Babbington had gone there to live.
“I am seeking the apartment of an acquaintance who possibly resides here,� he said to the clerk, as he stopped at the desk and leaned upon it. “Will you let me see your house directory, please?�
“If you will give me the name I can save you the trouble of looking through the directory,� replied the clerk.
“Grafton,â€� said Nick, mentioning the first name that occurred to him—the name, by the way, of a very oldtime acquaintance, whom he had not seen for years, and whose home, when last Nick Carter knew him, was in London.
And right here happened one of those strange coincidences—or phases of luck, whichever one chooses to name it—which occur in the experience of every person of active life; for the clerk replied at once, and without an instant of hesitation:
“Oh, yes; Colonel Grafton. Certainly, he lives here. It is not ten minutes since he went up in the elevator. Will you telephone up to him? Or—if you will give me your name, I will have it attended to for you.â€�
“I will go directly to the apartment, since the colonel has only just gone up himself,� the detective replied carelessly. “Will you tell me how to find it?�
“Certainly, sir. Tenth floor, Broadway front; number one thousand and one.�
“Thank you.�
“Give me your name, please, and I will telephone up that you are coming. It is the rule, you know.�
“Just say that it is Mr. Parsons,� replied the detective, as he turned and hurried toward one of the elevators; and he did some tall thinking while the swiftly moving cage was bearing him to the tenth floor of the enormous building.
For the Grafton whom Nick Carter knew and whose name he had made use of on the impulse of the moment was not a colonel, and this man of the Creotoria could not be he.
Nevertheless, Nick had hit upon a name of a resident of the building, and there was so much gained, at least.
The detective hurried through the corridor of the tenth floor toward number one thousand and one, and discovered, as he approached it, that a tall, military-looking gentleman, with white mustache and imperial, and with a distinctly soldierly bearing, was standing in the open door awaiting his approach.
And Nick, when he was close enough, pretended great surprise in greeting the man.
“Why!� he exclaimed; “there must be some mistake! You are not my friend Grafton. Have I, by any chance, been directed to the wrong apartment?�
“I think not,� was the smiling reply. “My name is Grafton, although I have not the slightest recollection of you, sir. I am Colonel Morely Grafton, of the British army. Will you step inside, sir? It is possible that I can aid you in finding the man you seek, forGrafton is not a common name. We all claim relation.�
“My friend by that name is Paul Grafton, a resident of London,� replied the detective.
“I have a nephew by that name, whose home is in London,� was the reply, as the colonel led the way into the sitting room. “He is now in India. Will you be seated, sir?�
Nick sat down.
He realized that now, in order to carry out what he had gone there to do, he must waste a few moments in conversation with this man, in order that no suspicion might be attached to his call; and in the conversation that followed it came out that the nephew of the old colonel was really the detective’s friend.
And so, nearly half an hour was used up in chatting with the British officer before Nick Carter ventured to rise and take his leave; and when he did so he had to promise the colonel that he would call again at some future time.
But he had found his way into the house, and the rest of his design was now open to him.
The number of the apartment occupied by Madge Babbington was known to the detective, and, because of that number, nine hundred and one, he knew it to be directly beneath the one occupied by the soldier.
It was then midnight.
The corridors were deserted.
It is true that from some of the apartments, as Nick passed them, came sounds which indicated thatthe occupants were still very much alive and awake; but he paid no attention to these things, hurrying onward and descending to the next floor below by the first stairway he could find; and so he found himself, presently, before the door of nine hundred and one.
He listened at the door for a moment, but not a sound came to him from within; and yet he figured that it was more than likely that at least one servant was somewhere inside, awaiting the return of the mistress.
He speculated for a moment as to whether he should use his picklock, and so force his way inside, or ring the bell and trust to his ready wit and assurance to be permitted to wait—and he decided on the former course, realizing fully the risk he ran in doing so if he should be discovered.
That picklock of his which has been mentioned has often been described in the Nick Carter histories, and needs no further description here, save to say that it is an instrument of the detective’s own invention, and is a magic wand in his possession when it comes to the opening of locked doors. Even Yale locks are not proof against it.
He took it from his pocket, inserted it in the lock, manipulated it for a moment, and so pushed open the communicating door, stepped inside, closed it after him, and then stood very quietly in the hallway while he listened for any sound that might be made.
But there was none.
A dim light shaded by a red globe burned in that hallway; beyond, from one of the rooms, a brighterlight glowed invitingly, and Nick tiptoed his way toward it and peered inside the room.
It was deserted, and, after assuring himself of the fact, the detective began a tour of the apartment, passing from room to room, to discover if there was any living presence in the place at all.
It did not take him long to become assured that he was the only person there, although he saw many evidences of the recent presence of one or more servants, and he came to the decision—correctly, as it happened—that the maid and perhaps another servant had taken the opportunity of their mistress’ absence to pass an hour or two with other servants in another part of the building.
At all events, the detective was satisfied that the way was open to him—for how long a time he could not determine—to search the place for proofs of the things he suspected, if proofs were there.
Of course, there was the possibility that one or both of the servants might return at any moment and surprise him—for it was now considerably past midnight—but he relied upon his own resources to conceal himself until there was offered an opportunity to escape, if such a thing should happen.
During his first tour of the apartment he had selected the room in which he believed such evidence might be found if any existed—- a small room which opened off from the library and was separated from it by portières.
It contained a roll-top desk, which was closed and locked; a cabinet letter file, which was also carefullylocked against intrusion—and, in short, bore the general resemblance of a sort of office room; and at one corner of it there was a very small safe, which Nick believed he could lift and carry away with him, if he so desired.
“If there is anything here at all to interest me, and to supply the proof I want, it is inside that little safe,� was the detective’s thought, as he looked at it and estimated its weight not to exceed a hundred pounds at the most.
It stood upon a shelf of hard wood that had evidently been placed there for its reception, and a Navaho blanket had been draped over it, to conceal it.
Nick tried the handle of the safe door, to discover if Madge had left it unlocked, by any chance; but it was safely locked against intrusion, and so the detective spun the dial of the combination lock, preparatory to resting one ear against it to find the tumblers by sound, for he was an expert in that art, which, be it known, is a profession by itself.
He had just placed one ear against the dial, or so close to it that not a sound that might occur inside the lock would escape him; he had just begun to turn the dial when he was startled by the rattle of a key in the lock of the outer door of the apartment, and was made conscious of the fact that somebody was returning; but whether it was one of the servants, or the mistress herself, he had no means, just then, of determining.
Instantly he switched off the light in that small room, and then, as he heard footsteps approachingthe room which adjoined it, he stepped quickly behind a tall easel in an opposite corner, which held an almost life-sized portrait of the beautiful Mrs. Babbington.
He found that it entirely concealed him, for the bottom of the canvas on which the portrait had been painted was not more than three inches from the floor; and so he stood there waiting while the footsteps came nearer—and he could now determine that there were two persons approaching, instead of one.
They entered that adjoining room where the light was glowing brightly, and the unmistakable voice of Mrs. Babbington, in low laughter, reached his hearing.
“‘Ernani’?� she was saying. “Yes, that was the opera to-night; but I scarcely heard a note of it, Nora. I had other things to think about to-night. And then, of course, we had to go somewhere afterward. That is why I kept you waiting. But I got away as soon as I could do so. Now, what news have you? Tell me while I am taking off these wraps.�
“There is one thing, Madge, that seems to be of some importance,â€� was the reply, delivered in a voice that gave Nick Carter a start of surprise, for he instantly recognized it as the voice of Miss McQueen, stenographer and secretary to Benjamin Oaks, the lawyer. “That young man who went to Idaho—Patrick Garvan was his name, wasn’t it?—is on the track of something—I don’t know what. And Chris says, in his last letter, that he ought not to be permitted to return. He says that an accident can happen to him out there, just as well as not. It is up to you, Madge, to decide that question.â€�
Nick Carter would have given a good deal to have been absent from that particular locality at that precise moment.
It had been no part of his plan to remain there until the possible return of Madge Babbington, but it had not occurred to him that she would leave her friends before two o’clock.
He looked about him for a means of escape from that small room—a thing that he had somehow neglected to attend to before the necessity arose for it; and he remembered, as he did so, that the unusually large Navaho blanket that hung suspended from ceiling to floor close at his right hand, next to the easel, concealed a door; and as he recalled the plan of the apartment when he had searched through it, he believed that the door must communicate with the private hallway of the apartment.
But even so, would it be possible for him to open it and to pass through and close it again without attracting the attention of the occupants of the adjoining room? He doubted it.
Unused doors are apt to stick or creak on their hinges; nevertheless, it offered the only means out of the present dilemma, and he determined to attempt it.
He went about it methodically, realizing that hastewould be fatal, and hoping almost against hope that no impulse on the part of Madge would send her into that small room before he could make his escape from it.
He stepped from behind the easel, knowing from the direction of the voices in the next room that neither of the women would be able to see him as he did so; and he pulled aside the Navaho blanket.
His luck favored him.
The key to the door was in the lock—quite naturally, one might say, on the inside of the door—and he opened the blade of his pocketknife, passing it up and down between the door and the casing, to discover if the bolt of the lock had been shot.
It had; and so he brought out his little case of miniature tools, with the tiny oil can that is half the diameter of an ordinary lead pencil, and shot a drop of oil against the bolt of the lock and upon the hinges of the door, and then, withdrawing the key, administered to that in the same manner—and believed that now, by exercising great care, he would be able to open the door without making a sound.
In the meantime the conversation in the adjoining room had been continued, and the detective had necessarily overheard every word of it, although he would not have remained a moment to do so had he been able to make his escape on the instant.
The reply that Madge Babbington made to the statement of Miss McQueen was characteristic. Nick could imagine just how she shrugged her shoulders when she made it.
“Wire Chris Morgan, the first thing you do in the morning, to get rid of him. I don’t care how it is done, Nora, only we can’t afford to take any chances. Still, I don’t see how Patsy Garvan has been able to dig up anything that would be of service to him.�
“He might do that if only he knew where to dig,� was the significant reply; and it was responded to by a light peal of laughter from Madge. Then she added, perhaps irrelevantly:
“Nick Carter was at the opera to-night.�
“Watching you, Madge?�
“Surely.�
“But I thought——â€�
“My dear Nora, he has never abandoned his ideas for a moment. He, or somebody working in his employ, has been on my trail and yours, too, ever since my acquittal.�
“And on Car—Carleton’s, too, I suppose.â€�
“Surest thing you know, Nora. I wish I could shoot a drop of prussic acid upon his tongue. That would keep him still for a while.�
“But you cannot, my dear.�
“No; at least, not at the present time.�
“I had thought that perhaps you would try——â€�
“Try what, Nora?�
“Your wiles, your fascinations, your witchery——â€�
“What! On Nick Carter? My dear, you don’t know the man.�
“Possibly not; but I have never known you to fail yet in such an undertaking. Look at the things you have done more than once. Look at——â€�
“Hush! No names!�
“Why? We are alone, aren’t we?�
“I suppose so. One never knows. One of my maids might even now be hiding behind the easel in my little den. I’ll look, presently, to see.�
Nick Carter was at that instant engaged in silently turning the key in the lock of the door, and he smiled to himself, being thankful that it had not occurred to her to make the investigation sooner.
“Well, Madge, you know the name that I would use. He hates you—there is no doubt of that—and at the same time he is so madly in love with you that he can scarcely contain himself.â€�
“But that is only when he is near me, Nora. Whenever he is away from me he hates me, as you say; and, do you know, he is so cold and snakelike, and so utterly fearless, that sometimes I am actually afraid of him.�
“You have reason to fear him; there is no doubt of that.�
“Oh!â€�—with a light laugh—“he will kill me some day, without a doubt, unlessâ€�—with deep significance—“he happens to die first.â€�
Nick Carter, in the adjoining room, which Madge had called her “den,� was at that moment in the act of passing through the doorway which he had succeeded in opening before him, and, as he paused an instant to hear that last remark of Madge’s, his glance fell upon the small safe, or, rather, upon the curtained blanket that concealed it from view.
He wanted very much, indeed, to inspect the interiorof that safe. He had been interrupted at the very moment when he was attempting to do so, and now, without a second thought concerning what he would do with it, he turned about, raised it from the floor, lifted it through the doorway, put it down, turned and closed the door after him, and so stood in the hallway of the apartment, with only one more door between him and escape from the rather compromising position.
Again he picked up the safe. You or I would have found it difficult to carry away, but, although it was heavy, and a clumsy thing to bear, the detective’s great strength handled it easily, and he went along the hallway rapidly to the outer door which communicated with the corridor of the building.
What would he do with it? He had not decided that point yet.
He realized, of course, that he would not be able to take it with him out of the building, for there would be no sort of excuse that he could make to the clerk at the desk in the office.
Outside the apartment, he did not pause, even for an instant, but moved rapidly forward until he had turned a corner of the corridor, and so was hidden from the woman he had just left, in case Madge should discover her loss and rush into the halls to give the alarm.
But no such thing happened, and just then Nick came to the stairway, and he recalled the fact that the building was exactly twelve stories high.
He was on the ninth floor at the moment. Threeflights of stairs would carry him to the top floor, and from there, another one, if he could find it, would take him to the roof.
Nick began mounting the stairs, going as rapidly as possible, carrying the weight he had to bear—hoping all the time that he would not meet one of the night watchmen, or any of the residents of the apartment house.
He found the stairs that led to the roof, and he found a locked door at the top of them, but we have already discovered that locked doors offered but little impediment to the onward march of the detective, and in a trice he had it open and had passed out with the safe in his arms, upon the roof.
“Wow!� he half exclaimed, wiping the perspiration from his face and seating himself for a moment upon the safe, to rest. “I have had a good many strange experiences, but this is certainly a new one on me. Anyhow, I’ve got the safe, and I have found rather a secluded place for opening it. There isn’t much likelihood of disturbance up here.�
Nor was there.
He began, as soon as he was rested, to turn the dial, with his ear close to it, and, although he was engaged in that manner upward of half an hour before success came to him, his patience was at last rewarded, and he turned the handle of the lock and opened the door.
The night was clear and there was the half of a moon in the sky, so there was light enough.
The safe being open, he turned it over on its back, so that such light as there was would shine into it—and then he uttered a sharp exclamation of utter amazement.
The safe that he had taken so much trouble to carry to the roof was absolutely empty, save for a pasteboard card, which had fallen to the back of it when he upturned it.
He reached inside and drew forth the card, wondering what it could be; and then for a moment he sat quite still, staring at it in silence; but only to break into a hearty laugh immediately thereafter.
What was it that caused his amazement, and then his laughter? This:
There was writing upon the card, which was the only thing the safe contained, and the message it contained was addressed to him. It said:
“My Dear Mr. Carter: So sorry to disappoint you, you know; but I have a notion that some day you will pay me a call, and, finding me absent, will venture to investigate the surroundings. Naturally, this safe would be the first thing to attract you; and so—this slight message of my regard and esteem.“Madge Hurd-Babbington.â€�
“My Dear Mr. Carter: So sorry to disappoint you, you know; but I have a notion that some day you will pay me a call, and, finding me absent, will venture to investigate the surroundings. Naturally, this safe would be the first thing to attract you; and so—this slight message of my regard and esteem.
“Madge Hurd-Babbington.�
“Well, now what do you think about that?� he muttered to himself, with a grim smile on his face.
He wished at that moment that he had not taken it at all; he wished, also, that he could have returned it, so that Madge would not know that he had visited her apartment during her absence; he wished a lot of impossible things, in fact, but what he did was quite to the point.
He closed and locked the safe again, put it in an upright position, as if it had not been opened—for, of course, he replaced the card inside of it—and then he passed from the roof to the top floor of the building and walked down the stairs to the tenth floor, where he sought the elevator.
At least, he would return to the office from the floor to which he had been taken in the first place.
It was a little past three o’clock when he left the building, nodding to the clerk as he passed the office.
“I don’t think I could call this a very brilliant night’s work,� he told himself, as he sought the nearest subway station. “Still, that scrap of a conversation told me considerable, although I did not hear a word that would convey the slightest proof of what I desire to know.�
But he did not go directly to his home even then. He went, instead, to one of the night offices of the Western Union and wrote a telegraph letter of fifty words to Patsy.
It was four o’clock in the morning when Nick Carter got into his bed, and, contrary to his custom, it was eight o’clock when he left it. He had been roused from sleep by the raucous cries of men in the street and avenue, who were shouting unintelligible information concerning an extra that was just out.
The cries sounded like:
“Wuxtra! Wuxtra! Fullercountuv——â€� Nick gave it up at that, although he believed that he had distinguished the word murder among the jargon. He rang his bell and called Joseph to him.
“What is that extra about, Joseph?� he asked.
“A double murder, sir, discovered early this morning—soon after four, I think. Danny is reading about it now, sir. I only saw the headlines over his shoulder.â€�
“A double murder? Where did it happen, Joseph?�
“I don’t know, sir. I did not notice. Shall I prepare your bath?�
“No; I’ll fix it myself. Go down and get me a paper. I’m rather curious to know what it is all about.�
“Yes, sir; at once, Mr. Carter.�
Joseph departed, and the detective repaired to his bath. When he came out of it he discovered the paperthat Joseph had brought to him, on the table in his sleeping room.
One glance at the headlines riveted his attention instantly, and, naked as he was, he seized upon the paper and seated himself upon the edge of the bed to read the account of the double tragedy it partly described.
The word that had attracted his attention was the name, in large type, of the same apartment house at which he had met with his adventure during the preceding night—the Creotoria.
We won’t attempt to give the headlines as they were printed, but in substance they were something like this:
“Murder. A Double Tragedy at the Cretoria Apartments in Upper Broadway. Another Babbington Mystery. Woman lately tried for murder and acquitted is found unconscious beside the two victims of New York’s latest murder mystery. Triple crime intended. Bullet intended for the third victim went astray and her life was spared, although a slight wound was inflicted where it plowed its way along the side of her head just over the left temple. Only clew is mysterious late caller. A man giving the name of Parsons inquired for Colonel Grafton after eleven o’clock, but remained with that gentleman less than half an hour, and was seen by the night clerk to leave the building after three in the morning.�
The detective paused right there long enough to utter a low whistle of astonishment; and then he skipped down from the headlines to the article itself, for he was amazed to find that there had been threepersons in that apartment when he left it. He had supposed there were only two—Madge Babbington and Nora McQueen.
We will not attempt to give more than the substance of the article, sufficient for the purposes of this story, but the account of the tragedy, briefly, was about this:
Mrs. Babbington, who occupied the apartment in question, kept two servants. One of them, the cook, had been given a night off to attend a wake in a distant part of the city, but had returned to the apartment shortly after four o’clock in the morning.
She had entered the place with a key, with which she had been provided, and had found that a brilliant light was still showing in the parlor, which, by courtesy, was called the library.
After listening and hearing no sound from that room, she went to it to investigate, and then ran screaming from the room to the telephone, which is in the dining room.
“Murder! Murder! Murder!� she shouted three times over the phone to the clerk at the desk, and then dropped to the floor in a faint, where the clerk and the night watchman presently discovered her.
They also found what they at first supposed was a triple murder in the library of the apartment. Three women were stretched upon the floor, apparently dead from bullet wounds, and in two of the cases the bullets had entered the brain directly in the middle of the forehead. In the third one something had deflected the aim of the assassin, and the bullet that was doubtlessintended to slay her as her companions had been slain had glanced along the left side of her skull above the temple and ear. This wound is, however, not considered dangerous, the skull is not fractured, and Mrs. Hurd-Babbington will recover.
It will be remembered that Mrs. Hurd-Babbington was lately tried for the murder—and so forth, and so forth. Nick skipped that. He read on again, in substance as follows:
One of the victims of the double tragedy which came so near to being a triple one is the personal maid of Mrs. Babbington; the other victim is so far unknown, and has not been identified. At the time this paper goes to press Mrs. Babbington has not recovered consciousness sufficiently to give a coherent account of the affair, if, indeed, she knows more about it than has already been printed.
At a late hour last night—eleven-thirty, or near that time—a man appeared at the desk and inquired of the clerk for a gentleman named Grafton. This man gave his name as Parsons. The clerk sent him to the apartment of Colonel Horace Grafton, which is on the tenth floor of the building, and immediately telephoned to the colonel of the fact.
Colonel Grafton received him, and entertained him for about half an hour, at which time he took his departure; but it is certain that he did not leave the building or attempt to do so until after three o’clock in the morning, and it was then not later than midnight.
Where did he pass the three hours that intervened?
The theory of the police is that he intended to go through the place thoroughly, and that at last he found his way into the apartment of Mrs. Babbington, who was absent, having attended the opera; and it now appears that the apartment was entirely deserted at about that time. The cook was absent, as has already been stated, and the maid, who is dead, had been passing the time with another servant on the eleventh floor of the building.
It is supposed that the man was in the apartment when Mrs. Babbington returned to it with the other woman who accompanied her; that she encountered her maid in the corridor or at the door, and that the three entered together; that the thief, being discovered and probably threatened by the three women who found him there, shot them.
The clerk gives only a partial description of the man who asked for Colonel Grafton—et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
No further details of the tragedy can be given until Mrs. Babbington has recovered sufficiently to relate her own experiences, which doubtless will be the case by the time our evening editions are on the street.
The detective laid the paper aside with a mixture of feelings.
There was one, of course, which was not without amusement, that he should be the one to be charged with the crime, and, when he realized that he had gone there without disguise, he saw that it would be well for him to alter his appearance for a few days, until some investigation could be made into the mystery.
That the unidentified dead woman was Miss Nora McQueen he had not a doubt; but who had done the thing?
Some one opened the door at that moment, and Chick entered the room. His first glance alighted upon the paper that the detective had been engaged in reading, and, with a half smile on his face, he asked:
“Well, what do you think of that, Nick? What do you make out of it?�
“Nothing—as yet. How do you read it, between the lines?â€�
“It’s an odd circumstance, isn’t it? I thought at first that that chap who gave the name of Parsons might have been you.�
“It was,� was the quiet reply.
“What? Do you mean that?�
“Yes.� And then the detective gave his assistant a correct account of all that had happened while he was at the apartment house; and, in closing, he said:
“Now, Chick, I have reason to think, from what the McQueen woman said to Madge last night, that nothing would have suited Carleton Lynne better than to put both of those women out of the way. But you can dispose of that idea at once, since you were——â€�
“Unfortunately, Nick, I cannot. I lost him.�
“Lost him?�
“Yes; just that.�
“Where? When? How? Tell me about it.�
“I’ll tell you all I know.�
“Well?�
“After the opera he went with the people who werein that other box where he made a call during the performance, to Louis Martin’s, for supper. I went there also, and found a small table not far from where they were seated. I was hungry myself, and, perceiving that they had ordered a substantial meal, I did likewise, not fearing but that they would be longer about it than I.�
“Well, go on.�
“It never occurred to me that Lynne might leave the table before they had finished, and I was unfortunately seated so that I was obliged to turn my head to look at them. I did not want the Babbington woman to get onto the fact that I was trailing them, and, knowing that she is as sharp as needles, I did not pay very close attention to them for a time; and finally, when I did look around, my man had disappeared.�
“Do you mean that he left there during the progress of the meal?�
“Just that.�
“Well?�
“I went out in search of him, but could find no trace, so, thinking that he might return, I went back to the dining room and waited for the others to leave. When they did break up I followed Madge and the woman you say was Miss McQueen to the Creotoria. When they had gone inside the building I came away.�
“Where did you go then?�
“I came home. I decided that either Lynne was safely in bed in the big house where he lives—the Lynne house—and that he would come out at the usual hour this morning, which is nine-thirty or ten, or thathe had gone somewhere else where I could not get trace of him. I am going now to the Lynne mansion to watch for him.â€�
“All right. Go ahead. If he does come out at the usual hour, telephone the fact to me.�
“I will. What are you going to do about the matter of Parsons?�
“I’m going to get into a disguise and go to the Creotoria at once, to investigate this business in my own way.�
“And I?�
“You wait at the Lynne place until Carleton comes out or goes inside, no matter how long it takes. Afterward, come directly to me at the Creotoria. I’ll need you there.�
“Very well.�
“In case I am not there, wait for me. I’ll have arranged with headquarters so that we may have privileges on the case. Tell the manager who you are, and go ahead with the investigation in your own way.�
“Why, where will you be, if not there?�
“‘The Latest News,’ printed in red at the bottom of the page in that paper, states that Madge was taken to a hospital. I may go there to see her.�
It was a remarkable circumstance that Nick Carter should have placed himself under conditions where he found himself suspected of having committed one—or, rather, two—of the most wanton murders of the century.
There was a grimly humorous side to it when he stopped to think, nor could he attach any blame to the hotel clerk or to the police, because they had assumed that the mysterious caller on Colonel Grafton was the person who had committed the deed.
But in that very supposition on their parts he had the advantage of them, in that he personally knew the untruth of it—in that until the hour of two in the morning, or a few minutes before or after it, he was certain that one of the women now dead and the other now wounded at the hospital were perfectly well, and certainly anticipated no thought of imminent danger.
It will be remembered that he had escaped from the apartment where the double crime was committed, with the small safe in his arms; that he had made his way to the roof of the building, and that he had spent a considerable time there in opening the safe.
He had not seen any person in the corridors—anywhere, in fact, within that building, after he came away from that apartment—until he had passedthrough the office on his way to the street, shortly after three o’clock; he had not noted the exact time.
But some person had been there—and it was almost a logical deduction that the person who had committed that double murder was in the building at the time Nick Carter entered it and did not leave it until after the business of the ensuing day had begun—or that the murderer was an actual resident of one of the apartments there.
This latter theory naturally disposed of the idea that had partly formed in the mind of the detective that the man who called himself Carleton Lynne might be the guilty one, because Chick had already been indefatigably on Lynne’s track for ten days, and was supposed to know—believed himself that he did know—every move that the man from the West had made during that interval.
The conversation that the detective had overheard while he was in hiding in the little room and intent upon making his escape from it must not be forgotten.
It had made a marked impression on him, implying, as it had done, a deep-seated hatred and fear—which is a stronger incentive to the commission of a crime than hate ever was—on Lynne’s part, for Madge Babbington.
Nick Carter’s theory of the original condition of things, which had brought about the appearance of Carleton Lynne upon the scene bore out this idea, too.
It was quite natural that the man, having attained the possession of the Lynne millions, should wish to keep them for himself and should have a reluctance tosharing them with a woman whom he both feared and hated—save only when he was in her presence, and she fascinated him with her tigerish eyes and her beauty.
And that very fascination which she doubtless exercised over him would lead him all the more insistently to wish to rid himself of her; it would but add to his fear of her when he was not with her, and when there was opportunity to think calmly upon who and what she was, and of what extremes she was capable.
Possibly he feared for his own life, as soon as she should be his wife.
The poisoned cup, the stealthy dagger, the pistol shot in the dark; all were possibilities which he could see waiting for him in that future that the woman had doubtless planned for both of them.
And so, while on his way to the Creotoria apartments, wearing an adequate disguise, so that he would not be recognized as the man who had called there to see Colonel Grafton, Nick Carter could not figure out in his mind any other theory that was satisfactory to him in regard to the murders, save the one that Carleton Lynne must somehow be the guilty person.
That idea of the police, of a burglar or thief, surprised at work and shooting down in cold blood three women who opposed his escape, was, to Nick Carter’s mind, preposterous.
There was one other point, too, which the detective had noticed in the reading of the account of the crime, and that was the accuracy with which the bullets hadbeen fired at the victims—all save one of them; probably the last one.
Something of the personal description of Carleton Lynne has already been given, and now, as the detective recalled it, he remembered the cold expression in his eyes, that were set so wide apart, denoting innate cruelty; he recalled the deliberate, almost cautious, motions of the man, his steady, fearless, defiant eyes; and he remembered, too, that Lynne was a man out of the great West, where marksmanship with a six-gun is almost a matter of inheritance as well as a universal talent.
Lynne’s eyes were the eyes of a dead shot—and the bullet holes were bored exactly in the center of the foreheads of the two women who were dead, while the one fired at Madge had only narrowly missed its mark.
Nick believed that he could explain that miss, too, on the same theory that applied to the other two shots. In this manner:
Nora McQueen and the maid had been shot first, and then the weapon had been turned upon the woman whose eyes and whose very presence fascinated Lynne.
Had he caught one flash of those eyes, even as he attempted to fire the fatal shot at her? Had the expression in them compelled his intention to waver, and so deflected his aim? Even as she had stood there facing almost certain death at his hands, had she, in the fraction of a second that was permitted her, been able to throw her spell over him? And had he, even at the instant when his finger was pressing the triggerof his gun, sought, against his own set purpose and will, to spare her?
It was the only manner in which Nick Carter could account for a third shot missing, when the two that had preceded it had been fired with such deadly accuracy.
The papers had contained no mention of robbery—even the fact that the small safe was missing had not been discovered.
If there had been robbery of jewels or money, the papers would have reported it; and so it was apparent to the detective that the person who had committed the crimes had gone there with that express purpose in view—had gone there to kill. More than that, had gone there with the deliberate intention of murdering Madge Babbington and her friend and associate who was with her—Nora McQueen. For Nick Carter, since he overheard that conversation, knew positively that the two were friends and associates, and that they were working together—probably had long been associated.
We have gone over all this ground in order that the frame of mind which governed the detective when he went to that apartment house may thoroughly be understood.
He could not see any solution of the double crime save through the active instrumentality of the man who called himself Carleton Lynne; there was no other acceptable theory, for who else was there who could have desired the death of Madge Babbington, to the point of murdering her?
He did acknowledge to himself that, had he been less well informed than he was—had he not been there himself almost up to the time when the crimes were committed, and had he been told the story of the clerk at the desk about the mysterious stranger who had called there—he might have been influenced by it.
And then came another thought—a perplexing one, too:
Was it possible that the murderer, watching and waiting for the return of Madge and her friend, had seen him force his way into the apartment with his picklock—had waited until Nick Carter came out of the place, carrying the safe in his arms, and had then carried out his own dark purpose, realizing with a sense of security that another than himself would be suspected?
Such a thing was possible—was even highly probable, under the circumstances, and in the light of all that the detective actually knew of the conditions.
Nick telephoned to headquarters before he started out, as he had told Chick he would do, and so when he presented himself at the desk of the great apartment house he merely announced that he was sent there from headquarters—and gave his name.
Please remember that in appearance he did not at all resemble the man who had applied at that same desk at half-past eleven the preceding night.
“There are half a dozen men here from headquarters, even now,� the clerk told him; but Nick onlynodded his head to that statement, and asked to see the house directory.
It was shown to him—a book taken from the safe, which contained the names and the numbers of the apartments occupied by each one of them, of every person—man, woman, and child—in the house.
He went over them without comment. There was not one there that suggested anything to him; but as he was in the act of returning the book to the day clerk he withheld it for a moment, and said:
“Point out to me, please, the names of your latest arrived guests—and begin with the very latest, informing me as you indicate the names the time of arrival here.â€�
“You will observe that there is not a vacant apartment in the building,� said the man behind the desk.
“Yes,� replied the detective.
“Well, with the exception of one gentleman, there is nobody in this list who has not lived here two years, or more. Here is the name—Henry Carroll.â€�
“Mr. Carroll seems to live alone; also to occupy rather a large apartment for a man who does live alone,� was Nick’s comment.
“Yes. He regretted that the apartment was so large at the time he took it; but it was the only vacant one we had. I made the contract with him myself. He is a very quiet, unassuming man, with iron-gray hair and closely cropped gray mustache. He would be a handsome man, too, if it were not for a frightful scar that extends all the way down one side of his face,and another one just like it that reaches a third of the way down the other side.�
“When did he engage his apartment?� the detective asked.
“It was engaged and paid for in advance, in order to hold it, three months ago,� was the reply.
“By the gentleman himself?�
“No; by an agent who represented him.�
“Is the man a New Yorker, or where is he from?�
“I do not know as to that, but, if you are of the opinion that he might have had——â€�
“I have no opinions; I am seeking information. When did Mr. Carroll first occupy his apartment?�
“He arrived here just three weeks ago to-day?�
“Where from?�
“I do not know.�
“And he has been here steadily ever since then?�
“No. He remained just a week, and then went away, to Washington, D. C., on a business trip.�
“Has he returned?�
“Yes.�
“When?�
“Last night, at a quarter to twelve.�
“Do you know if he is in his rooms now?�
“I know that he is not. He went out at half-past seven this morning.�
“Thank you. I am going to the ninth floor now. When Mr. Carroll returns please notify me of the fact at once; I wish to have a talk with him.�
“Yes, sir; I will do so.�
It was then that Nick sought the apartment, ninehundred and one, and if he had expressed his thoughts aloud, that expression might have been found in the following sentence:
“Henry Carroll will not return at all, for Henry Carroll and Carleton Lynne are one and the same.�
Several things had happened to affect the case by the time Nick Carter entered the apartment.
The small safe had been discovered on the roof and had been traced to apartment nine hundred and one; a woman who would not give her name, and who was thickly veiled from observation, had appeared there and had inquired for Mrs. Babbington, and when told that Madge was at the hospital had departed with the avowed intention of seeking her at the institution. One of the headquarters men had followed her; the coroner had “viewed� the case and had given permission for the removal of the bodies, and that very thing was happening when Nick arrived; information had been received that Madge had recovered consciousness, and her brief statement boiled down to one sentence was merely that a man whom she did not know had appeared suddenly in the parlor of her suite and had begun firing his revolver the instant he did appear; and she claimed to know no reason why he should have done so, and that she had had no idea of his presence until the actual shooting began.
No weapon had been found; nothing had been discovered to assist in the solution of the mystery, save the incident of the safe, concerning which Madge insisted that she knew nothing, but which seemed to bear out the original theory of the crimes.
Nick returned to the office floor of the building.
“I want two things,� he told the clerk with whom he had already talked.
“Well, sir?�
“I want to see the night clerk who was on duty last night, and——â€�
“He is here now, sir, in the office of the manager.�
“Very well. Show me to that office, and I will tell the manager of the other thing I want.�
“Right this way, Mr. Carter,� was the reply, and he was ushered to a hidden office behind the desk.
“I am Nick Carter,� he said abruptly, “with authority from headquarters. Mr. Brixton, you are the manager here?�
“Yes.�
“I want you to go with me now to the apartment occupied by one Henry Carroll; never mind why till we get there. I want this night clerk to accompany us.� And, on the way to the apartment mentioned, after he had overcome the objections of the manager, Nick asked the clerk:
“Who came into the building after the man Parsons made his appearance and went to the suite of Colonel Grafton?�
“Only Mr. Carroll. No one else.�
“Who went out of the building?�
“Only that man who called himself Parsons—that is, until after six o’clock.â€�
“What time was it when Carroll went out?�
“Half-past seven.�
“Did he speak to you at the time?�
“Merely to say that he might not return to-day.�
“Would you recognize his voice if you should hear it again—say from another room—if you could not see him and if he could not see you at the time?â€�
“I am sure that I would. Sure thing.�
“All right. I’ll give you an opportunity to prove that assertion before you are many hours older.�
Brixton was at that moment opening the door of the apartment they sought, with his pass key. They entered together.
There were a few articles of clothing strewn about on chairs; some cheap toilet articles were on the dresser in one of the bedrooms; two suits of cheap clothing, almost new, were hanging in one of the closets; two trunks, both quite heavy when Nick lifted one end of each of them, were in another room.
“It doesn’t look as if Mr. Carroll was very domestic in his habits, or intended to remain here a very long time,â€� the detective remarked; and then, without announcing his intention, he drew a heavy bronze paperweight from one of his pockets—he had brought it with him surreptitiously from the manager’s office for the very purpose to which he now applied it—and he struck the hasp of the lock of one of the trunks a mighty blow, which broke it in half.
“What do you mean by such a proceeding?� the manager cried out; but, instead of replying, Nick calmly threw back the lid of the trunk.
The trunk was empty, save for about a dozen lengths of sheet lead, which had been cleated fast to the bottom of it.
Without a word of comment, Nick turned to the second trunk, and served it in the same manner—and with precisely the same result.
“You see?â€� he said, turning upon the manager. “Find Henry Carroll, and you will find the murderer—and I will find him before dark to-night. Come away. There is nothing more to be accomplished here.â€�
Chick was in the office awaiting the detective when he returned to it with the manager and the night clerk. Nick drew him at once to one side after telling the clerk, whose name was Pryor, to wait for him.
“Well?� he said to Chick.
“I think that Lynne must have spent the night at his house. He came out at the usual time this morning and went downtown. I let him go, and came here.�
“Good. Go now to the telephone; call up Ben Oaks; find out if Lynne is there. If so, tell Oaks to find an excuse for detaining him till we get there. If he is not there, ask Oaks to notify us the moment he arrives. I happen to know that Oaks had an appointment with him this morning.�
“There is another thing that is important—a message from Patsy,â€� said Chick. “I telephoned to Joseph, and he read it to me. I put it down as he stated it. Here it is.â€�
The detective took the paper and read: